


jota

by Lysaanderr



Category: TwoSet, Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF, twoset violin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23261656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysaanderr/pseuds/Lysaanderr
Summary: Eddy knows where he belongs.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	jota

Eddy tugs Brett's shirt up and over his head; the shirt catches Brett's glasses and there's a muffled yelp from inside the tangle of fabric. Eddy snickers, gives the shirt another yank to free his head, twists it around the smaller man's wrists and leaves it there. Brett stares up at him, a cowlick across his forehead, glasses askew. Eddy slides his body down along Brett's until their eyes are level, props himself up with his elbows on either side of Brett's upraised arms. 

"Hey," He grins, lowers his head… and the frames of their glasses clack sharply against each other.

“Ow!” Eddy flinches back and hooks his glasses off with a finger, flicks them to the side.

Brett chortles but adds in an almost apologizing tone, “I should have warned you.”

Eddy gives his head a quick shake—he’s not yet used to wearing glasses—and lifts Brett’s off his face.

Brett blinks, three quick blinks like he always does when he first takes off his glasses, and asks, “Better?”

“Better.” Eddy bumps the tip of his nose against Brett's.

Brett scrunches up his nose, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. "Eskimo kiss!" He tilts his head up and nudges Eddy's lips apart with his own.

Eddy gives in, sinks in, this warm slow rocking, cheek against cheek. Brett purrs in his ear, then growls, the low vibrating hum in the non-existent space between their chests. 

Eddy wants to squeeze himself between Brett's ribs, bear the brunt of that pounding heartbeat hammering against his skull. He wants his own pulse to mirror the other's, match it beat for beat and breath for breath, lungs expanding and contracting to fill the same space. 

"Brett. Brett. Brett," he says, gasps, pants. The sound of those letters, the shape of them on his tongue—no longer just a name or even a word but more like a weight on his skin and in his bones. A sweetness that he swears he can remember dreaming, a place where he is safe. 

They’re moving in time, in sync in this ebb and flow. Brett rolls his hips and Eddy huffs a little, halfway between a laugh and a groan, and Brett is giving him that toothy smile, eyes gleaming.

Eddy drops his forehead to Brett’s and closes his eyes, and they sway, harmonize, and Eddy’s heart is full to bursting, the length of his spine arching like Brett’s doing pizzicato on him. Eddy scrambles at Brett— his lifejacket—clutches his slim narrow waist, mouths the shallow dip in the hollow of his throat.

When Eddy unravels, Brett steadies him, squeezing into Eddy’s sides gently with his knees and holding him in place. Eddy slings his arms around Brett when he shudders, the tightness across his back and chest loosening and unknotting. Eddy runs a hand over the slight hunch in Brett’s shoulders and then Eddy sags bonelessly over Brett.

“You okay?” Brett finally asks after a moment of catching his breath, and Eddy mumbles something incoherent.

“My arms are going numb.” Brett squirms. Eddy grunts, scrambling to wrench the shirt loose and flinging it aside. Eddy kneads one of Brett’s sore biceps in apology while his other hand gropes blindly by Brett’s head.

Brett slaps his hand aside. “Here. Let me.” Brett slips Eddy’s glasses on for him, tucks stray curls behind Eddy’s ears, curves his fingers along and down Eddy’s jaw. “Better?”

Eddy squints, vision clearing, sees Brett come back into full focus before him. Their skin is hot and sticky, still pulsing, and Eddy tucks his head against Brett’s shoulder, fits his cheek into curve of the neck where Brett’s violin usually rests.

“Never better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Navarra op. 33 (Pablo Sarasate) was written in the style of a jota, a Spanish genre of music/dance.
> 
> A/N: Happy birthday, Eddy.


End file.
